Archive for the ‘depressed’ Tag

PISSED

The other day I finally went to the urologist. I wanted to find out why at fifty years of age I started wetting the bed three nights a week. As I walked into my sparse HMO Plan’s Doctor’s Office, I was prepared for news of a cancerous growth in my manhood, a renegade testicle or an untreated progressive tropical sexual disease I picked up eating Cuban Food in San Francisco’s Mission District. But I got even worse news… There was nothing physically wrong with me. The emotionless managed care physician even managed to look at my prostate, which apparently gave him the “OK” sign as well. I wonder if it was a “thumbs up” or it just “winked”at him like a Cheshire cat?

RESTRICTED FLOW

If my member is not sick, that means my night-time urinary incontinence must be in my head. Or at least that was my first conclusion. After all these years in therapy trying to keep my Bipolar mind afloat, now I had sprung a leak down below. And, the treatment was as vague as the apparent cause. So the vanilla urologist gave the tasteless advice not to drink fluids three hours before bedtime and see what happens. He also emphasized no alcohol. I knew this was implausible. My Bipolar medications make my mouth extremely dry. I have to keep drinking liquids or suffer from such bad cotton mouth my lips stick together when I speak, causing annoying suction sounds. Plus, the thought of restricting the flow of alcohol prematurely during an evening on the town is out of the question. I prefer to drink with wanton abandon. Why should I once again have to add another limitation to my already restricted existence?

HI-HO!

And then it hit me… This was just one more annoying annotation to my treatment schedule I will have to endure due to my Bipolar Disorder. Just like the cadre of pills I have to take twice a day, now I must regulate my liquid intake. Another hurdle to clear, inconvenience to negotiate and regiment to be saddled with in order to remain ready for prime time. I feel like I am in an 1800’s horse-drawn wagon, piled high with pills and their side-effects, barely inching across the baron plains of the old west. Hi-Ho Effexor, Lamictal and Topamax! Git!

MANAGED MEDICAL INCONTINENCE

However the thing the Managed Healthcare Professional said that bothered me most is he felt the assortment of Bipolar medications I take are probably the cause of my night-time incontinence. I’m well aware they cause dry mouth, nausea, severe constipation and weight gain, among other things. But because my nightly dose of the anti-depressant Seroquel makes me sleep quite deeply, I may not be waking up when I have the urge to urinate. Consequently, I go in my sleep. And, the doctor made it clear he did not think I should discontinue any of my medications. So in essence, he was saying it was best to continue wetting my bed. That way “at least I have my sanity.” I call this Managed Medical Incontinence.

BEARING THE BAGGIE OF BURDEN

One time a friend who I met in a Bipolar Chat Room came to visit me in San Francisco. When I helped her get settled in her hotel room, she pulled out an identical Zip Lock Baggie to mine filled with pill bottles containing her personal mixture of Bipolar elixirs and poultices. I suddenly felt a strong commonality with her. I realized all Bipolar sufferers carry their own “baggie” full of unique prescriptions and medication induced limitations like mine, everywhere they go in life. I take a handful of assorted pills twice a day. Some people take theirs three times daily. Some have to take meds with food. Mine make me too nauseous to eat right away. A number of people can drink alcohol with them, but others get violently sick or depressed and can not combine the two. Each baggie contains a mixed bag of burdens specially formulated for that individual. But we all bear the same baggie of burden.

MY BAGGIE IS BIGGER THAN YOUR BAGGIE

Wetting the bed is a pretty heavy burden for a baggie to bear. You can learn to keep your shaky hands in your pockets, and take your midday dose of medication out of sight from your co-workers. But if you are ever going to have an intimate relationship, you can’t hide the fact that you are irrigating the bed. Or, you can wear a diaper to sleep at night and call it an “undergarment,” so it sounds more like Mormon underwear. However I’ve come to the realization that everyone’s baggie seems equally big in their own eyes. Different people with Bipolar Illness have different medication regiments. It’s not as simple as just popping a Prozac. And consequently, we all have our own set of annoying side-effects. Moreover, if they are your annoying side-effects, they are bigger than anyone else’s. When I first started taking a once daily dose of the anti-depressant Elavil in the mid-1980’s to treat my Bipolar, I didn’t even need a baggie. Conversely, I thought taking that single pill at night would be a massive intrusion on the rest of my life. Now I carry a heavy duty Zip Lock Baggie, and yearn for the days of simplicity that came with only needing one pill bottle. These were the days when my side-effects could be counted on one hand, not amplified to a roar and punctuated by constantly having to change my bed sheets.

THE CAT IS OUT OF THE BAGGIE

Now that the cat is out of the baggie, do I accept my predicament or search for a solution? If you suffer from Bipolar Disorder, you are forever trying to do one thing to compensate for another. Am I willing to discontinue the Seroquel, become sleepless, depressed and dehydrated, so I can awaken dry just in time for another miserable day of suicidal ideations? Personally I am not ready to accept the Meaningless Managed Medical Memorandum on my nocturnal incontinence. So I will go forth seeking solutions that may or may not materialize. Will I end up adding to my baggie or shrinking it? I don’t know. But I do know I am not alone. Because Bipolar babies all have baggies. No matter how big or small, they are enormous to the bearer. And all of us in the Bipolar Community anticipate with bated breath a cure for their individual intolerable side-effects just around the corner. Side-effects are the price we pay for being alive and sane. However they can also drive you insane.

HALF IN THE BAGGIE

I thought the only way I could write about this was if I were “half in the baggie.” It’s an embarrassing thing to do sober. And nobody except the person “sleeping on my bottom bunk” really has to know. But so rarely can you showcase a Bipolar medication related side-effect that makes the non-afflicted truly realize how gruesome this business can be. There is no free ride. Moreover, in most cases Bipolar medication only works to a point. It does not completely wipe out deep depression, anxiety or mania. Just enough to get by. But the side-effects are full strength and show no mercy.

Everybody has a different way of asking for help. I have Bipolar II, with an extra serving of depression. So when I am down so low I cannot take life anymore, I try to give it back with an overdose of my medications and as much Vodka as my body can absorb before I lose consciousness. But no matter how many pills and how much Vodka I’ve ingested, I have still not been able to permanently put myself out of my misery. There is no doubt at that moment in time I sincerely want to kill myself. However, by not swallowing the entire contents of my medicine cabinet straight off, which forsure would bring about my demise, I leave the window open a crack with a parting call to my psychologist triggering an onslaught of help. Could it be that I’d rather wake up feeling sick to my stomach six hours later than remaining unconscious feeling nothing six feet under?

CallingAllCars

The other day I was on Facebook and noticed a message from an old acquaintance. He actually sent it out as a general notice to all his friends. He explained he was feeling intense anxiety, depression and having trouble functioning. He had an appointment with a doctor, but was extremely afraid of having to take medication. I thought it was somewhat strange he was “calling all cars” about his mental condition. Most people are very private about it. I was so intensely secretive I wrote a book about my experiences (BUZZKILL) using my real name. My friend was obviously a mental illness novice. He had not yet learned how to make the dramatic cry for help by atleast threatening to jump from something.

Don’t Buy Generics

The last time I checked my friend had forty-one responses from some very well-meaning people. But when you boiled it down they all had the same advice; “Hang in there. Things will get better over time. I’ll pray for you.” Irrespective of the stupid simplicity of their remarks, it was amazing they all basically offered the same generic response. And, not one person mentioned psychiatric help and medication, which my friend stated he was especially nervous about. It reminded me of someone telling a little kid they are going to the circus, when they are really going to get a rabies shot. And the “I’ll pray for you?” Why not just say, “I’ll waste some time talking to myself about you instead of talking to you.” Here was a true cry for help and in return came the off the shelf generic “You’ll be O.K.” What these people don’t realize is that depression is life threatening, not to be thwarted with a pep talk like before the big homecoming football game.

Go With a Name Brand

Being depressed and despondent is about as real as it gets. So I decided to “keep it real” and reach out with some useful “Name Brand Advice” via email. After all, I suffered from depression and anxiety most of my life. Who better to advise him than an individual who will actually address his concerns. So, I told my friend I have Bipolar Illness, which he may or may not have. But I know well the anxiety and severe depression that goes with it. I urged him to find a doctor who listens to him and what he could expect from medication, if in fact recommended. Also, I suggested he read my book because it specifically addresses his concerns. Moreover, I asked him to purchase five copies and bill it through his insurance. Lastly, I offered to meet with him anytime he needed to talk. He thanked me. Why not? I’m a name brand lunatic.

DiarrheaoftheEmail

Then I let loose a torrent of emails also to help my friend. I talked about medication side effects, finding the right doctor and coming with me to my support group for those who suffer from depression, anxiety and or Bipolar Illness. Each time he thanked me, but never took me up on an offer. Was I getting too involved? Did he not know me well enough to open up? Was I scaring him? Was he afraid of turning out like me? Did he want me to shut the fuck up with my “diarrhea of the email” advice? My mother used to beat a subject to death so badly that if it was health related, it would cure itself by the intermission. Was I becoming my mother? I checked my head for electrodes.

WalkAwayRenee

I finally decided enough was enough with the emails and to leave my friend alone. Walk away Renee. He knows what I have to offer and if he needs me I’m sure he’ll get in contact. Sometimes when we are Bipolar and find someone who is in similar pain, although undiagnosed, we will do anything to bring assistance. We identify with their struggle. But at a certain point that individual has to reciprocate by reaching out. You cannot force help down a person’s throat. All you can do is throw them a life-preserver and see if they take it. If not, let them find their own way. I hear a good chiropractor can cure just about anything. Maybe my friend isn’t ready to come to terms with the possibility of needing psychiatric help? I know when I took my first handful of psychotropic medication (in the prescribed amount), I felt the stigma of being a mental patient as if I was punched in the gut. I was actually disappointed in myself for being so feeble!

Billboards and Bus-Backs

I was beginning to feel like a social marketer for the American Psychiatric Association. Or, a Bipolar Recruiting Agent scouting out depressed people for a Bipolar diagnosis. Nonetheless, I have to be satisfied with having done my very best to help, and leave it at that. Offering too much help can be just as bad as doing none at all. Maybe I should cancel the billboards and bus-backs with my friend’s name on them, urging him to go to the emergency room if his depression gets worse.

You Can Lead a Depressed Person to Water…

Just like I have always subconsciously cracked the window during a suicide attempt, I realized my friend is doing the same with his mass email. He made his cry for help. Although not suicidal, he left an opening for someone to rescue him. However, I can’t fit through it. Maybe I represent too much reality? Whatever the issue, I hope someone can breach the barrier. And I have to be satisfied that I tried to offer assistance. It’s really up to him to accept it. As they say, you can lead a depressed person water, but you can’t make them see a shrink.

There is nothing like going back to the office after you’ve just had to take a week off due to a manic shopping spree followed by several days of suicidal depression. Even if you managed to have your meltdown outside the workplace, you still have to let management know why you suddenly fell off the grid.

In your mind, no matter how understanding they seem, you are forever marked as a Bipolar firecracker that can go off anytime, dramatically jerking, flinching and angrily sputtering out vile insults to potential and existing clients. And although you can not be fired for having Bipolar Disorder under The Federal Employees with Disabilities Act, management will start talking to you in calibrated calmer tones so you don’t have a sudden freak-out and assign all future stressful assignments to the receptionist.

ONE PILL SHORT OF A FULL PRESCRIPTION

Moreover, although management pledged to keep this to themselves, when walking into the office on your first day back from “sick in the head” leave, you smack right into The Great Wall of Rumors. And unlike The Great Wall in China, there isn’t a Starbucks at the end for your co-workers to enjoy. It seems everyone knows bits and pieces of your ordeal. Furthermore, embellished tales of you in a straight jacket and a padded room have rounded things out. But nobody will acknowledge you were ever even gone, although you’re forever labeled as one pill short of a full prescription.

BOTTOM OF THE BARREL

This same scenario can play out in other areas of your life with Bipolar Disorder. The quickest way to distance yourself from a long time friend is to tell them you are Bipolar and on medication. If they are closed-minded, the words “mental disorder” and “medication” will earn you the same respect as saying you are sexually interested in young boys. To them, “You’re not right in the head. You need medication to keep you from becoming a monster. You are not the person they thought you were.” In their brain that never breaks wind, your entire history together needs to be re-examined.

Basically just like in the workplace, you’ve suffered a loss of dignity. There is nothing dignified about mental illness. With cancer you are a hero every day you fight to stay alive. A Quadriplegic in a wheel chair is courageous for carrying on with such a pronounced disability. Even those with brain damage caused by an accident or stroke are looked upon with sympathy and hope. But if you have Bipolar Disorder, you’re just an emotional mess taking a handful of psych-meds to keep a handle on your compulsions, since you lack the ability to control them on your own. Bipolar Disease is among the bottom of the barrel in regard to human afflictions. You can’t even make gravy out of it.

AGING WITH INDIGNITY

One of the nicest comments I ever received was from a girl working in a coffee shop in my neighborhood. Somehow we got on the topic of age, and I mentioned I was 46. She was surprised, as she thought I was in my late 30’s, and commented I was “aging gracefully.” I was flattered. For a moment I was Steve McQueen.

What she didn’t know is that I am Bipolar, and sometimes feel as if I am actually “aging with indignity.” Maybe you can’t see it on the outside, but inside my cranium my brain in being pushed around in a wheel chair wearing a food stained bib and hospital gown begging for its meds.

Those who know me have seen my life go from right on track to me having to hit the “start over” button. Many have seen my rocky slide from owner to renter, and whether it’s true, partially-true or not at all, attribute it to my Bipolar Disorder. It’s impossible to simply “screw up” with this disorder. Accidentally slice your finger cooking dinner? “He’s a cutter! Hold him down! I’ll get the spit mask! Someone call 911! Hello, Rampart? Yes, I’ll start two CC’s of Ringers Lactate.”

THE AMISH METHOD

I can’t change who I am or the fact that I basically dumped my life in a Cuisinart and hit “chop” during several bouts of mania and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Moreover, almost everyone I know has some inkling that something in my life has not gone quite right, if not being privy to the whole disturbing tale.

This is why the only thing I can think to do is adhere to the “Amish Method” of coping. I figuratively tumble through life ignoring all the cars cutting me off in my horse and buggy and people jumping out trying to tip it over. Because if I ruminate on how bad it sucks to be stuck in the 1800’s in the 21st Century, I’ll never get out of bed in the morning. So I live my life as if everything is status quo and I like getting some teat action at four in the morning. I can’t stop to think about the time I was hauled off to the psychiatric ward in an ambulance in front of my entire neighborhood. The sheer humiliation will cause me to melt into a puddle of Prozac. I was drunk, depressed and mentioned suicide. Did the driver have to flash the lights and sound the siren? I wasn’t dying. At least not physically.

TURDS UNDER THE CARPET

If you are suffering from Bipolar Disorder, you are going to have turds under the carpet. The less turds the luckier you are. The more turds and you’ve probably dealt with a lot of shit in your life. But we’ve all got a few hidden kernels. It’s how you manage them that will make the difference in how you relate to the world. And, how the world relates to you.

FROOT LOOPS

My solution is to start-off each morning with a big heaping bowl of Froot Loops. I love the irony in it. It helps put everything into perspective. Also, it gives me the ability the laugh at my insecurities and get on with my day. And for those who say you are what you eat, then I’m colorful, sweet and packed with 8 essential vitamins and minerals. So if you still think I’m incapable of handling life’s challenges… Eat me.

Friday night was fight night. Or, at least it was for me. While talking with an irrational foul-mouthed balding and bloated neighbor with bad breath over my car being towed, his deceivingly meek looking son came out of nowhere and slammed me to the ground, fracturing my wrist and cutting up my arm. I make it a rule not to fight back unless in dire straights. Hit someone the wrong way and you could be the one going to the big house. Plus, fighting solves nothing. I prefer to use words. Aren’t we even taught as children to “use our words?” He must have missed that lesson.

Was the confrontation avoidable? Absolutely. I could have dismissed it and let this vindictive Porsche laden aristocrat go on with his elitist life having cars towed off his block, as he feels not only does he own his house, but the entire street. But I was out a $650 towing fee and wanted to know why. So when I saw him getting out of his four door Porsche which resembles the Fred Flintstone mobile, I went up to ask him about it and a small riot broke out.

GROUND HOGS DON’T TAKE HOLIDAYS

I am Bipolar II. I suffer from rapid cycling. If I’m not careful I can turn from depressed to manic in a matter of seconds. Consequently, I always have to keep myself in check. And for years I have done a relatively good job.

But no matter how hard I try I always have a major incident during the holiday season. It could be a serious problem at work, a car accident, a deep depression, a drunken mishap… Something to make me wish I could have gone to sleep on the day before Thanksgiving and wake up January 2nd, skipping all the drama. The holidays for me are an annual Ground Hog’s Day, the likes of the Bill Murray movie with the same name.Problems ever year. Same miserable results where I end up forlorn, depressed and suicidal.

SEASON OF THE WITCH

This year I made a conscious effort not to fuck up. Starting last week I decided to make no major decisions, to drive very carefully and not get into any arguments. At work I kept my head low and concentrated on my tasks. I decided not to go overboard with the unavoidable holiday drinking so I wouldn’t do or say anything stupid. Basically I was putting myself on parole. If I started to screw up I decided to put a David Yurman Bracelet around my ankle and voluntarily submit to house arrest.

However as Donovan said in the 1960’s, “It’s The Season of the Witch.” Some get the holiday blues and others get the witches’ brew. I think one slipped me a mickey when I left my water bottle briefly unattended at the office last week. I thought something tasted funny.

THE BITTER-SWEET TASTE OF REVENGE

As advised by the doctor who saw me in the emergency room when I went to have my wrist taken care of the next day, I filed assault and battery charges against the slap-happy looking son who blindsided me. I felt kind of bad, because it was the vermin-ridden father who I wished I could have arrested. I think he misread the situation and was protecting his dad.

Who knows what will become of the case? With my luck it will somehow backfire on me and I’ll end up doing five to ten in San Quentin. Most probably nothing will happen. So then my manic brain will start thinking of all the ways of seeking revenge; Painting “Ass Hole” on his garage door, camouflaging some spike strips at the end of his driveway or some other completely juvenile, but highly rewarding payback.

But revenge is bitter-sweet. It’s sweet at first because you are getting back at the person who has escaped the consequences of their abusive temper-tantrum. However it’s bitter because they will surmise it’s you and you will forever be looking over your shoulder in fear of retaliation. Moreover, take the low road of vengeance and you’ll have another confrontation in the future. This guy is obviously is a bottom feeder. Take the high road and you’ll never run into miscreants like these again.

HOLIDAY BLACK AND BLUES

So as I sit here licking my wounds, my dog is sitting next to me licking his ass. It reminds me of all my Bipolar friends and acquaintances who have told me “cheerful holiday revelers can take the whole season and shove it up their asses.” It depresses them too.

Many researches believe people with Bipolar Disorder cycle at specific times of the year. If it’s around the holidays, it could have to do with the colder weather and it getting dark earlier. Or, something about the season can be a trigger. Some people feel left out or lonely during the holidays, and it causes depression or manic behavior.

It all makes sense to me. The issue I have is why, through all my behavioral vigilance, did I still end up black and blue this holiday season? Was it wrong not to stand up for myself and approach the tow-happy father and son duo? Maybe considering the time of year I should have refrained? Should I just have accepted the $650 tow charge as just another Holiday blow and let it go at that? Could I have guessed there could be trouble and leave it alone? Hind site is twenty-twenty. Maybe my dog is not so stupid for licking his ass.

THE SEASON OF REASON

For Lexus it’s “the December to remember.” For me the holidays are “the season of reason.” Every year when I have my holiday trauma, I remind myself with extra vigilance of all the reasons not to kill myself. If you are Bipolar, thoughts of suicide are frequent occurrences that would scare the Juicy Coutures right off “normal people.” We see thoughts of suicide as part of the mind-scape we navigate on a daily basis.

I have them every day and night. But around the holidays, I spend the month thinking of reasons not to go ahead and do it. And every year it becomes harder. Is this the season I’ll run out of reasons?

DEPARTMENT OF PARKING AND EXTORTION

Just when I thought it was all over came the encore. I went to the San Francisco Department of Parking and Extortion to get a neighborhood parking permit so I can park without it raining tickets on me anymore. But the city worker who resembled a potato with only half a brain would not give me the sticker unless I paid for the two tickets I received the day I was towed. And not having my briefcase full of money with me, I couldn’t get the permit. So as soon as my car is spotted on the street by the parking authority, it will get booted. It’s a never-ending cycle specially created by the City of San Francisco to punish people for living and working in the city and contributing hundreds of millions of dollars in tax revenue.

It was all I could do not to drag the bored looking potato-headed clerk out from behind the glass via the little pass-through slot where she takes your money head first. But I heard there is a city surcharge if you do that. And then you are responsible for stuffing her back in.

DEATH WISH

The easiest thing to do is sit down and die. I have a suicide plan. Many Bipolars that suffer deep depression do. But I have a hard time pulling the euphemistic trigger. I’d rather someone else do it.

So I am walking through the worst neighborhoods alone and at night. I am crossing streets against on coming traffic. When I’m driving near canyons I speed up, hoping to lose control, crashing through the guard rail and over the side exploding in a fireball of magnificent Mustang. I even wash my Bipolar medication down with a couple of glasses of wine at night. And, at the end of the day I’m secretly glad I’m alive.

I don’t really want to die. Or at least not quite yet. I just want Holiday Ground Hogs Day to have its final showing. To make it through next year’s holidays without incident. To keep my Bipolar Disorder in check instead of thinking of ways to check-out. Medication can not do all the work. I have to do my part by avoiding the triggers and talking to my therapist. There is no “easy button.” Maybe reaffirming this is my holiday gift to myself. I’d like to give this gift of wisdom to you as well this holiday season. I hope it will help. Sorry it’s not wrapped.

Today I learned that September 10th is Suicide Prevention Day. What struck me is the ridiculous nature of it. November 22nd is the big National Smoke Out when everyone is supposed to give up cigarettes. The line of reasoning makes perfect sense. You’re a smoker, so you try to quit. Most people know you’re a smoker so they rally around you offering support and stupid suggestions to help get you over the hump. And the smoker has something positive to work toward, like not smelling like an ashtray and being able to breathe without their lungs sounding like two paper bags crumpling inside their chest.

But Suicide Prevention Day? First of all, most people do not know you are suicidal nor do you want to let them in on the secret. So who is going to rally around you? Is your psychologist going to spend the day at your house having a barbecue? Instead of throwing out your Marlboro Reds, do you pitch the gun you were going to use to shoot yourself in the head? Is Suicide Prevention Day when you take an oath not to be in a suicidal depression, like it is something you have control over? Are the people who do know your tenuous mental state going to give you little tips like; “don’t drive over any bridges, have your landlord mete out your daily medication and not a pill more, or, check into the mental wing of your local hospital for the day?”

Or, is Suicide Prevention Day intended for the general public to prevent suicides. For instance, does the Suicide Hotline start making outgoing calls to people checking in to see if they are planning on killing themselves that day? Maybe focus on Kentucky whose official motto is “Come to a State of Depression?” Are people going to police roof tops, bridge railings and hardware stores that are selling an unusual amount of rope? Will they lock up US Postal Service employees for the day so people with a death wish won’t antagonize them hoping to be shot by a lunatic mail carrier?

Why do we have to have a special day for suicide prevention.? Shouldn’t every day be a day focused on keeping people from killing themselves? Personally I do not think the general public has enough education on mental illness to know how to spot the danger signs of severe depression and suicidal behavior. We all know the signs of a heart attack or stroke. Everyone knows the signs of the onset of Alzheimer’s Disease. But how many people know the danger signals of a severely depressed person about to commit suicide? Or, an individual who may appear perfectly happy who is actually dropping little cues that things are amiss and are going to snuggle up that evening for the last time with a .45 Caliber automatic pistol?

And, as I’ve discussed at length in my blog A Tisket. A Tasket. I’ll Decide When I Want to Get In My Casket, why should all suicides be prevented? Some people have suffered enough, have been through the medication meat grinder and legitimately see no hope of recovery, so have decided to relieve themselves of their earthly burdens. Who are you or I to say they do not have that right? Suicide is not bad word. It simply means “killing ones self.” It doesn’t mean “killing yourself because you’re a loser and can’t make it in life-like everyone else.” It also doesn’t mean “cop-out,” unless you are a corrupt cop and you really want out. It’s just a noun.

What happens after Suicide Prevention Day? Everyone can relax and it’s ok to kill yourself? People can let down their guard and stop being vigilant about being more in tune with the people around them ? The kid on the other end of the Suicide Hotline can go back to playing video games on his i-Phone and intermittently tell the suicidal caller “it can’t be that bad.”

This September 10th I am going to make a conscious effort that everyone I meet knows it’s Suicide Prevention Day and ask what they are doing to celebrate the occasion. I think it should be a big party because if everyone is happy, nobody will want to kill themselves. So if I happen to see anyone depressed and out of sorts, I’m going to reprimand them for not being in the spirit of the day. The last thing I want is for somebody to see a depressed person. That’s why every city and town across America should have parades of depressed people from hospital mental wards on pill bottle-shaped floats going down good ole main street waiving at the crowds with songs from the late Elliot Smith blasting out of huge loud speakers.

I can see it now spawning a new American classic movie called “Depressed on the Tenth of September.” Tom Cruise can play a guy who tried to cut his wrists and spent two years in a mental hospital in Vietnam. Now he has come home to a world of happy chucklehead backslappers telling him to “snap out of it.” But all he wants to do is hang around with his mental ward buddies and give each other electro-shock treatments until they all pass out in their wheel chairs and piss themselves.

Just do me one favor; Don’t make September 10th the only day you take the time to ask a friend who seems a little down how they are doing. That might be the question that saves their life. Now don’t forget your noisemakers.

I’m recently single again after a broken engagement. It would have been my second marriage, but it didn’t feel right. This time I knew enough to dial it back before the Rabbi told me to break another glass. I hadn’t really thought about what it meant to be single again, until I had my first weekend alone. Unlike before, I was not ramping up with the dating sites and connecting them to my cell phone so I didn’t miss a possible connection. I had practically hooked my phone to my belt last time, which is something I swore I would never do, along with wearing Dockers.

This time I am not motivated to go online. I know if I do I’ll be crazed with generating activity and I just don’t feel like one more thing with which to be obsessed. I decided to just meet girls the old-fashioned way; Screaming at them out of my car window waiving a six-pack of Bud and inviting them up to my place to get loaded. I shouldn’t joke, maybe that does work. It did in high school.

Actually, the old-fashioned way is just meeting girls through normal everyday interactions and where I socialize. And I do see lots of women through the course of my work and in the neighborhood bars and coffee shops I frequent. Usually I would balk at this method. Just walking up to a woman and introducing myself was out of the question. I had the self-confidence of a paraplegic dwarf with a twin growing out of the right side of my face, and all you can see are teeth and lips.

A good part of this was due to my Bipolar Disorder. Having a mental disorder is always in the back of my mind. It’s not so much that I think women can tell, it’s just that eventually if I met one sooner or later I’d have to drop the B-bomb. Once I had a date who laid down the ground rules before I could even open the hatch under the plane. She said she was fine with anything except guys who didn’t have jobs or had mental illnesses. This is the kind of thing your therapist says will never happen in the real world. Nobody would be so brazen to say such a thing.

I also recall all the things that embarrassed me throughout my Bipolar life and somehow thought every girl I spoke with automatically knows everything in my screwed up head. I call this Elephant Mind Syndrome. Like how as a kid I was made fun of constantly because I was horrible at sports. Or, for years how my mom made me swim with a bathing cap so my ear plugs would not fall out. I spent summers being relentlessly teased about being a topless girl. Then there were my suicide attempts and stays in the psyche ward.

If I did meet someone and got past all that and was still trying to hang in there with a rap, I’d start ruminating on my medication’s side effects. If my mouth was dry I wondered if I lisped like a deaf person. I also worried if I had some crusted food or beverage in the corners of my mouth from the dryness. Or, I wondered if she noticed my eyes shift slightly back and forth because of my nystagmus. Coupled with the speech impediment and I thought the girl was ready to tell me “how wonderful it is that I am on my own and whether I lived in special needs housing or with my parents.?” Worst of all, I was afraid if I bought her a drink my shaky hands would dump it all over the bar. I couldn’t tell if I was killing the relationship in my mind or these things were actually happening. Eventually the pressure was too much and I’d go home to watch Lock-Up. Cell extractions are so uplifting.

And what if by some miracle I found a girl who actually liked me? Moreover, there was a possibility we might be getting intimate that evening? First I’d have to figure out what’s wrong with her. I once brought a homeless woman to my apartment because she was wearing a business suit. I had no idea that was all she owned. So if I vetted her as normal, I then had to worry about whether I’d be able to perform because of the meds I take. Also, there’s the whole dilemma of how long can I put off taking my night-time medication which usually makes me very tired and useless as a bedfellow.

My point? When you are Bipolar, nothing is simple. There is no such thing as going with the flow. No matter what turn your life takes, there are a series of related anxieties. And I recently realized if I let those Bipolar driven fears consume me, the only women I am going to meet are the nurses in the emergency room pumping my stomach.

I know a lot of Bipolar guys and girls reading this blog have had similar feelings attached to meeting the opposite sex. Tired of losing the demolition derby before I even strap myself onto a bar stool, I will share my new approach to meeting the opposite sex; If you see a man or woman you’d like to meet, force yourself to go up and introduce yourself. The worst thing they can do is say “I’m not interested.” “I’m not interested” can mean a million different things that have nothing to do with you. Maybe they are waiting for someone, they are attached, not staying long or you could not be their type. But I doubt they can see your lifetime of embarrassment playing like a video loop in your eyeballs or think you are mentally retarded because you have dry-mouth. And if you really aren’t their type, so what? There are a lot of pretty people out there that are not your type for one reason or another.

The important thing is that if you really want to meet someone, keep trying. Practice makes perfect. Keep challenging your fear. I actually just started practicing with some “trainers.” “Trainers” are women or men you are not particularly interested in but you try to strike up conversations just for practice. That way if you embarrass yourself or say the wrong thing, it doesn’t really matter. Consider it a pre-season game. It doesn’t count.

Have you ever walked down the street and saw a really ugly guy with a very attractive woman and wondered how that mismatch got made ? It’s because of self-confidence. The guy was probably persistent and refused to accept his shortcomings as a reason not to be a desirable human being. People with Bipolar Disorder are lucky in a way because our shortcomings are on the inside. And, they really aren’t shortcoming at all. For many of us our disease has made us stronger. So if you are Bipolar and looking for your soul mate, the only way someone can see all your issues is if you tell them. And if and when you tell them is for you to decide.

First I take the Baggie, the same one I’ve used for at least six years, out of its hiding place in my sock drawer, and put it on my dresser. Filled to the brim with plastic prescription bottles, they’ve punched wholes through the material greatly limiting its days of functionality.

Like Pigpen’s blanket, the thought of getting rid of it upsets me. That Zip Lock and I have come such a long way together. The end of a marriage. A divorce. A year being single. An engagement. Now a broken engagement and I’m alone again. Maybe the Baggie is actually bad luck? No. It couldn’t be. Not my Baggie.

Next I count out all the pills I need from the various bottles. I used to use one of those daily dose containers like the elderly, but I was too lazy to keep refilling them at the end of the week. Then I count the pills to make sure I have the right amount. Nine in the morning, seven at night. I also make sure they are in the right denominations. Two 250mg Effexor, One 100mg Lamictal and so on.

Finally I put them in my cupped hand, go to the bathroom sink, get a mouth full of water and gulp them down. Then I inspect my hand and the surrounding area to make sure none of them went astray, slipped from my fingers or shot out a nostril. Now I’m finally free to spend the rest of the day or evening ruminating over whether I took my pills or not and if so were they in the right quantities?

This has been the ritual for the past twenty-four years of my life. And if I miss a “feeding” I definitely feel it. Light headedness, trouble focusing, nausea, anxiety…

If you’re Bipolar medication can be a touchy subject. For me it’s the only thing that stands between a life of relative normalcy and being curled up in a ball on the floor begging to be put to sleep like an animal. I just can’t stand the depression. The fragility of my life at times can be very unnerving. I can’t go anywhere or do anything without my beat up Baggie of psychotropic libations designed to manipulate my dopamine and norfenefrine for the best possible reception.

Some people with Bipolar Disorder have chosen not to go the medication route for a number of reasons. People don’t want to give up the manic highs. Others don’t want to gain ten or twenty pounds. There are even some who feel taking medication is an official confirmation of mental illness and they’d prefer not to wear the blue ribbon. And in this day and age of only eating raw foods and free range massaged jicama, others do not want to introduce anything man-made into their bodies. This includes medication that may make them less annoying individuals around mealtime.

I think all reasons for or not taking medication for Bipolar Disorder are justified. Even if someone is very unstable, as long as they are not hurting themselves or anyone else, they should decide what to put in their bodies. Especially when it alters their moods.

What does bother me are those with Bipolar Disorder forever searching for their capsule in a pill bottle of bright and shining armor. They want the ultimate drug that never lets them feel sad and always exist in a perpetual state of “I can’t wipe this grin off my face.” Maybe they had taken a drug at some point in their lives that briefly made the feel that way. Or, they once mistook a manic cycle for a drug’s efficacy. Whatever they felt that one time, they want it back and believe the right drug or combination thereof is out there. They refuse to stop experimenting until they reclaim the crown of perpetual happiness which is rightfully theirs and inexplicably escaped them. And, they snuff-out psychiatrists like spent cigarette butts until they find one willing to indulge their personal quest to find the matzoh.

We all know you can never go back home. And people still looking for the old hood are never going to find the same satisfaction. But as a fellow Bipolar in complete disorder, I can definitely understand the chase and why some of us can’t stop. It’s like settling for a Casio when you once wore a Rolex. They both tell time, but the Rolex made you feel like you weren’t really a prep cook at McDonald’s.

One time a friend came to visit me in San Francisco. She is Bipolar as well. I was in her hotel room as she unpacked and pulled out a similar beat up Zip Lock Baggie as I had tucked away in my sock drawer, only filled with her pills. It made me feel really good and warm inside. Not because we were both stuck in the same Bipolar boat. But, because I thought about how many of us must be out there with our beaten up Zip Lock Baggies taking our psychotropic medications day in and day out each with our own little rituals.

We all may not know each other. If we did we would probably never think to talk about it. However it’s like coming from the same ancestral heritage. You know as individuals with Bipolar Disorder we have certain traditions. Jews wear Yamakas. Hindus wear Turbans. And Bipolars have a special bag for their pills.